


Help

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Caring, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Moran is suffering, will he turn to Moriarty for help?</p><p>(Written for the prompt by anonymous: "Moran asking for help- Moran trusting Moriarty.( Fluff. A little bit of angst because our beloved tiger must be in some kind of distress to ask for help")</p><p>P.S. the death referred to is NOT Sebastian Moran's or Moriarty's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably a bit more angsty than anon wanted but I felt the incident referred to here was probably the first real time Moran would turn to Moriarty for help and comfort largely of his own volition.  
> 

   Moran has been gone all day – a fact not overly vexing in itself as Moriarty had told him that his services were not required today, so when Moriarty returns home himself and finds the house still lacking the colonel’s presence he has no particular reason to be concerned. However, when it is some two hours after Moriarty got back and still Moran has not returned, the professor cannot quite keep the niggling worries at the back of his mind from trying to creep through, particularly when he thinks back upon how quiet Moran was at breakfast.

    Moran is not by nature secretive, precisely – he certainly never usually tries to conceal his other activities from the professor - but he does try to keep his private concerns to himself unless he is pressed. Perhaps though he has simply gone to one of his clubs to get a little male companionship from someone who is not Moriarty, the professor thinks. Except… Moran is not truly friendly with anybody there; he has complained on numerous occasions about how he cannot bear to keep company with those stuffy fellows for more than an hour or two at a time.

    When dinner comes and there is still no sign of Moran, Moriarty begins to worry in earnest. They have both kept some dangerous company and what if one of their criminal acquaintances has harmed the colonel? He can hold his own in a fight with one or perhaps even two or three people but if there were more…

    Moriarty tries to enjoy his solitary meal, which is excellent as usual, but his uncertainty over his companion’s whereabouts and indeed even Moran’s state of mind (a worse thought perhaps than if Moran has simply been beaten or captured by someone else – that Moran’s self-destructive impulses have caused him to turn somehow upon himself) make the piece of good mutton seem to stick in his throat. With less than half his meal eaten he pushes the remainder away and goes to ponder and pace in his study, thinking over where else Moran may have gone and deciding on a plan of action. He is about to go and fetch his coat with the intention of visiting a few of the colonel’s usual haunts when he hears the front door open at last.

    “Colonel.” Confronting Moran in the hallway, taking in his hunched shoulders, his sodden hat and overcoat (and how long must he have been out in the relatively light drizzle to get so wet?), his nose and cheeks reddened with cold.

    “Professor.” Moran doesn’t look at him, just blows on his cold hands (no gloves, Moriarty notes with dismay) and sets about removing his hat and coat without a further word.

    “Where have you been all day?”

    “Out.”

    “Doing what?”

    “Walking.”

    “In the cold and rain?” Moriarty is well aware that Moran despises chilly, wet weather.

    “I needed to think; couldn’t do that elsewhere.”

    “Think about what?”

    “Nothing important.” Moran looks at the wall, his jaw tense, his fingers clenching, and never before has Moriarty seen such a look of intense pain radiating off him. This before him is not his self-confident colonel, this is a wounded animal, one terrified of letting anyone close in case he is hurt any further.

    The thought occurs to him that Moran’s pain might be very literal, although he does doubt that, but still he must ask. “Are you injured?”

    “I’m fine.”

    “Sebastian.” Moriarty cannot go to him and embrace him – Moran’s stiff posture shows that he will not accept such treatment yet and will only shy away from him, and yet… Moriarty also gets the sense that the colonel is so very close to confiding in him; that the fact that Moran has not staggered home drunk or so far tried to flee to his room and shut himself away says much. “Perhaps there is something I might help you with?”

    Moran laughs scathingly as he turns to face the wall, resting his forehead against it. “You can’t help me,” he says, his tone low, his voice hoarse.

    “Of course I can. If you are in some kind of trouble then-”

    “Then what?” Moran spears him with an accusatory stare. “You’ll throw money at the problem? Or send one of your other assassins toddling off to commit murder?”

    “I will do what I can.”

    “You can’t do anything, not about this.” Moran, still with his forehead pressed to the wallpaper, looks down at his feet. “You can’t.”

    Moriarty understands this behaviour if nothing else – that Moran is trying to convince himself more than the professor that he is a lost cause; that he must suffer alone, but doesn’t that therefore mean that really deep down he _wants_ the professor to help him? To offer him reassurance and any assistance he can give?

    “My dear Moran.” Moriarty puts his hand on Moran’s shoulder, feeling him tense under the touch, but not shrug it off or withdraw. “Perhaps… Perhaps if you ate something you’ll feel better.”

    “Food cannot fix this, Professor.”

    “Fix what?”

    “It doesn’t matter!” Moran spins around to stare at him, still radiating so much wounded fury, for yes there is anger in him, Moriarty can see that now, but not directed at him, and suddenly Moriarty gets a partial sense of what may have set Moran off now. He has only ever seen him look so tormented on a handful of other occasions, and always from the same root cause. On those occasions though Moran always tried to drown himself in a bottle to blot out his suffering, whereas now he has come back home of his own accord and Moriarty can smell no alcohol upon him. Surely nothing – or no-one – else though could cause Moran such misery.

    “Sebastian,” he asks now, still with his hand on Moran’s shoulder. “Has something happened involving your father?”

    Moran turns his face aside, though not so far as to obscure the anguish written into his features. “He’s dying, Professor,” he says finally.

    “Well, that cannot be a bad thing, can it? Given his treatment of you.” If Moriarty had had his way then Augustus Moran would have been dead a long time ago. He has never fully understood Sebastian’s refusal to put an absolute end to the torment he has suffered at his father’s hands, be it directly or at a distance, all his life.

    “He asked to see me.”

    “Sebastian.” Moriarty carefully reaches and takes Moran’s arm. “Come in here, where it’s warm and we may talk properly.” He leads him without protest into the sitting room. “And did you go and see him?” he enquires, when Moran is seated upon the sofa.

      Moran shakes his head. “I had word from his doctor this morning, saying he’s got maybe a day left at most, and that he asked for me, but… I _couldn’t._ ”

    “And you need not; you owe him nothing.” Moriarty sits beside him, close enough so their bodies touch, and takes Moran’s hand in his. “Do you hear me, Sebastian? Your father has taken every opportunity to treat you with contempt and cruelty and do you think he has any intention of changing his behaviour towards you now? No doubt he only wishes to take the opportunity to insult you one last time before he dies.”

    “Yes sir, I am sure that is his plan, but…” Moran turns his face away once more and then abruptly he stands up and moves towards the fire. He spreads his palms towards it, as if only to seek its soothing warmth, but Moriarty is acutely aware that Moran is also very firmly putting his back to him in doing so. “But what if…?”

    He does not need to finish for Moriarty to understand Moran’s dilemma. What if Augustus is repenting on his deathbed and will finally offer an apology to Sebastian for so mistreating him and Sebastian’s beloved and long-dead mother? What if he has had a change of heart and wants to offer him a few words of praise at last? And now finally the professor grasps fully Moran’s reluctance to see his father killed. With Augustus dead all chance of him giving Sebastian his approval, of telling Sebastian that he is proud of him after all, die.

    “Professor.” Moran half turns to look at him again then abruptly he throws himself at Moriarty’s feet, putting his bowed head into the professor’s lap. “What should I do, sir? I don’t know what to do. Please…” _Tell me what I should do._ He chokes on the rest of his words and cannot utter them, and Moriarty feels a lump come to his own throat.

    “My dearest Sebastian.” He strokes Moran’s hair, simultaneously troubled by Moran giving him this responsibility but also deeply touched that Moran trusts him enough to ask for his help instead of simply turning to the bottle for comfort. “He will never change and really, no matter what hopes you still cherish that things may be different this one last time, you know that.”

    “Yes sir,” Moran says, his voice muffled against Moriarty’s trouser leg.

    Still Moriarty continues his soft stroking, wanting to give Moran whatever comfort he can. “And you know that he has only requested you visit him so he can wield his power over you one last time – that is surely why you have not already acceded to his request, because in truth you know that he is acting only out of spite. Therefore, in my opinion, you should not give him his sick satisfaction. It is, however, ultimately still your decision.”

    Under the professor’s gentle caresses, Moran peers up at him. “If I was to go to him… you would think less of me?”

    Moriarty now brushes his fingers over Moran’s cheek. “Of course not, my pet; you must do what you must, what you think is right but please, Sebastian.” He puts his hand to Moran’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Consider it rationally before you act. Listen to your brain and not merely your heart.”

    “You’re right Professor, of course.” Even being told this much seems to have calmed Moran a little, and when Moriarty now tugs at him, inviting him to rise and to sit beside him once more, he acquiesces. “Rationally, I know that he won’t have changed at all,” he confesses, leaning against Moriarty, his head tucked under the professor’s chin. “I s’pose I knew that all along, you’re right; if I truly believed he could change I’d have gone to see him without hesitating. I just wanted to believe that he… That I… That I might still make him proud of me.”

    “ _I_ am proud of you.” Moriarty hugs Moran more tightly to his chest, possessively, or protectively, binding the two of them close together. “Futile ‘what ifs’, Moran, are inconsequential beside _what is_. You can never please your father save for giving him one last opportunity to show his contempt for you, but you _already_ please me; you please me with what and who you are. You always have done.” He covers Moran’s hand with his own. “Truly I will not think ill of you if you decide you must go to him; I will even accompany you there if you wish it, but if you do go then it must be for you, not for him.”

    Moran laughs bitterly. “Maybe I should go just to make sure the old git is really dying.”

    “Whatever you think best.”

    “I don’t even know why I ever cared what he thought of me, as if his opinions were ever worth a damn.”

    “Precisely.”

    “Professor.” Moran turns his head and looks up at Moriarty now, and he puts his hand to the professor’s face, feeling the prickle of Moriarty’s beard beneath his fingertips.

    Moran’s fingers are still cold but Moriarty does not flinch from his caress. Instead he covers Moran’s hand with his again and guides it gently to his mouth, where he lightly kisses the pads of his fingers, then his palm. “Well?” he says at last, his blue eyes meeting Moran’s. “Have you made your decision whether to go to him or not?”

    “Yes.” Moran’s hand comes to rest now on Moriarty’s chest, directly over his heart. He can feel it beat, and he feels too the warmth of the professor’s body and the reassuring weight of Moriarty’s arm around him, and this… _this_ is where he belongs, with this man who cares for him, who nurtures and cherishes him, not heading out into the cold night to cater to the last sadistic whims of his hated father. “I will not go to him,” he says. “He can die alone and rot in hell for all I care.”

    Moriarty only smiles gently at this, a tender sort of smile, not even a gloating smile of triumph. It was never really a competition between him and Augustus Moran, after all. Sebastian came back to _him_ , not to Augustus, seeking the professor’s guidance; seeking confirmation from the one he loves and respects above all others that the decision he had already made himself on his long solitary traipse through the damp London streets was the right one.

    “Very well,” he says. “Now, I am sure you haven’t eaten anything all day, have you?”

    “No, Professor,” Moran says quietly, face pressed to Moriarty’s chest again.

    “Well then, there should be plenty of mutton left so let us go and see about procuring us both some supper, shall we?”

    “Right sir.”

 -

    It takes less time than expected to arrange for a substantial supper to be laid out for them, with the mutton, potatoes and carrots that had been meant for the earlier dinner for the pair being put to use again now. Moriarty serves Moran’s portion first, putting out a good amount of carrots and potatoes for him alongside the slices of mutton to try to encourage him to eat plenty. Moran eats slowly but methodically, seeming to care little about exactly what he’s eating, but cognisant of Moriarty’s desire that he take some nourishment after going without all day.

    No doubt Moran will sleep little tonight and will still fret over his decision until he hears word of his father’s death. It is going to be a long night, Moriarty realises, but at least getting a hot meal into Moran is a good start, and since he ate little of his own dinner he eats more plentifully himself now.

    It is disconcerting, he thinks, watching Moran across the table as he forks a piece of potato into his mouth without enthusiasm. He is steadily clearing his plate but to see the colonel look so subdued when he is usually so cocksure is always unnerving. Moriarty finds himself thinking then of the times that Moran has supported him; when he has been the one person in the world Moriarty can turn to for advice and reassurance, and when he has seen the professor through the dark moods that grip him from time to time. Is this reciprocation then for that, he wonders, tit for tat, an attempt to redress the balance, or is his concern for Moran simply because he cares deeply for him?

    Maybe both. Either way, Moran has come to him for help and he cannot - _will not -_ let him down, of that he is sure.

    Moriarty, still in thoughtful silence, eats the remainder of his meal, for he needs to keep up his strength. Tonight, he thinks, he must be strong enough for both of them.


End file.
